by Roppe, Laura
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I call out.
Lennox enters. “Hey,” he says. “Whatchyadoin’?”
“Just finishing homework.”
“Wanna make a music video with me?”
“Sorry, Tiff’s coming over. We’re going out tonight.”
Lenn shrugs. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting me to say yes. He looks around my room. “What’s this?” He picks up my rock.
“I found it on the beach.”
“It’s so cool. Wow. You found it? Just like this?”
I nod.
“It looks like someone made this, like for a souvenir shop or something, doesn’t it? It totally reminds me of Mom. Hey, you should write a song about it.”
I look at Lennox quizzically. “You think Mom had a heart of stone?”
“Yeah,” Lennox says, beaming. “Mom’s heart was like a rock, you know, rock solid. I always knew she loved me, no matter what.”
I grab the rock out of Lennox’s hands and look at it up close. I’d never thought of it that way.
“Shaynee,” Dad calls from the front of the house. “Tiffany’s here.”
I leap off my bed and run into the family room. Tiffany’s standing there with a small duffel bag, a makeup case, and a bag from Nordstrom. “Hi Cinderella,” she sings out. “Your fairy godmother has arrived.”
Tiffany flitters and flutters and flurries around me, primping and plucking and straightening and mani-pedi-ing me, and, as she puts it, “maximizing” and “actualizing” me in every conceivable way.
“Okay, we’re getting close,” Tiffany finally declares, sighing and stepping back from her creation. She gives me the once-over and turns to the Nordstrom bag. “And now, the crown jewel.” She pulls out a flowing, yellow peasant blouse from her bag. “I saw it, and I just had to get it for you.”
“Oh my God,” I squeal. “It’s perfect.”
Now she turns to her duffel bag and pulls out a pair of black combat boots. “Wear that shirt with your cut-off denim shorts and these, and you’ll be the belle of the ball.”
I’m swooning as I pull the soft blouse on over my head. And when I bend down to put on the boots, I squeal with excitement. Wow, it’s nice having a personal shopper who knows me so well.
“Okay, Shay,” Tiffany says when I’m done lacing up my new boots. “Remember what I’ve told you—sex appeal is fifty percent what you’ve got, and fifty percent what you think you’ve got. God and I have both done our parts here, and now it’s time for you to do yours. You’ve got to believe.”
I throw my hands up in the air like I’m at a gospel revival. “I believe!” I laugh. “Hey, Tiffy, shouldn’t you be singing ‘Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo’ or something?”
“I don’t need to. You’re already perfect.”
Two hours later, Tiffany and I are primped to perfection and standing in a massive line in front of The Beach House after gobbling down burritos bigger than our heads at Roberto’s and taking a brief detour to spy on Kellan at work.
“Wasn’t Kellan cute in his little mariachi shirt?” Tiffany squeals as we stand in line. “And I love watching him carry that heavy bin from table to table. It makes his arm muscles bulge.”
“Hey, girlies.” It’s Delaney with Juliette, plus Chaz and a couple of his friends. The whole lot of them joins us in line, much to the obvious annoyance of the people behind us. “Did you get your tickets already, I hope?” Delaney asks, her face the picture of concern. “Because the show’s totally sold out.”
“It’s a madhouse down here,” Juliette chimes in.
“And everyone’s all pimped out in their RCR T-shirts,” Delaney adds. “I guess Red Card Riot’s super popular, huh?”
“I had no idea.” Tiffany laughs. “Dean never talks about any of this.”
“Sounds like Jacket Boy’s ‘prone to humility,’ you might say,” Juliette says.
Why didn’t I at least Google Red Card Riot before coming down here? Or before blabbing to the entire school about how “awesome” they are? I guess I just thought Red Card Riot was some sort of neighborhood garage band or something. It didn’t occur to me that Dean’s band might actually have some sort of following.
Delaney shoves a piece of paper into my hand. I look down and see it’s a show flier. “Is this Jacket Boy?” she shrieks, pointing at a picture of Dean. He’s standing in the center of the band, wearing his now-famous leather jacket. He’s smoldering. C-Bomb stands next to Dean, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. The two other guys in the band lean casually on either side, staring at the camera without smiling.
Tiffany looks over my shoulder at the flier and answers for me. “Yep, that’s him.”
I can’t take my eyes off Dean’s face in the photo. It’s grainy, and black-and-white, and on cheap paper, but I feel like Dean’s intense stare, even in a low-resolution picture on a flier, is searing holes into my flesh. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow down to a normal rhythm again.
“He’s so hot,” Delaney screams. “Like, crazy-hot. Why didn’t you tell us Jacket Boy’s an effing rock star, Shaynee?” Delaney swats my shoulder. “You were holding out on us.”
I smile and shrug, too embarrassed to admit I didn’t mention it because I had no idea.
“Lemme see that,” Chaz says, snatching the picture out of my hand. He squints as he looks down at the paper. “Well, well, well. I’ve got to tip my hat to the guy. Even I think he’s a good lookin’ dude. Nice work, Shaynee.” Chaz flashes me a look of approval, clearly intended to induct me into the Chaz-Alvarez-Officially-Thinks-You’re-Cool Club. I roll my eyes. I don’t give a crap what Chaz Alvarez thinks of me. But Delaney really seems to like him, so I shoot him a half-smile to thank him for his generous endorsement.
Tiffany grabs the flier from Chaz and surveys the picture. “He truly is a good lookin’ specimen, isn’t he? Just like you are, Shaynee.” She winks at me.
I try to smile at her, but my stomach flip-flops. All I can think about is what Dean might say when we finally see each other again.
Tiffany grabs my hand and leans into my ear. “Our entourage might be standing here, Peaches, but it’s just you and me, okay? I’ve got you.”
Finally, the line to get into the club starts to move.
Oh God, my heart feels like a hummingbird on caffeine.
By the time Tiff and I enter the front doors of the club and step inside, shoulder-to-shoulder people have already packed into the area immediately in front of the stage. The only semi-open space is off to the sides or in the back.
“Do you wanna try to work our way up close?” Tiffany shouts over the loud din of the club.
I scan the already-rowdy crowd down front and shake my head. “No,” I shout back. “Too crowded.”
I’m so nervous, so anxious, so excited, so deliriously and hysterically yearning to see Dean, I’m not sure I’d be able to withstand standing shoulder-to-shoulder in an amped-up crowd. And, truth be told, I don’t want Dean to catch a glimpse of me in the club before our back-door encounter. If, God help me, he wants nothing to do with me, then taking him by surprise will be my only chance to make him hear me out.
My mind floats forward to the moment when I’ll get to see him after the show. What the hell am I going to say to him? “I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot. Please forgive me. I love you.” Ugh. I’m running out of time to get my speech just right, and yet, nothing I’ve come up with sounds even remotely right. I can only hope I’ll say something earth-shatteringly perfect in the moment. My heart leaps as I imagine Dean finally standing in front of me. He’s somewhere in this building right now, I realize. I’m so close, yet so far. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Soon, for better or worse, I’ll be able to tell him exactly how I feel. All I can hope is that he says he feels the same way.
Everyone from outside has now made it into the club, and the place is packed, everywhere, not just in front of the stage, and most everyone he
re is sporting some sort of RCR gear.
Tiffany waves to someone and I follow her gaze to a large group of kids from school. One of the girls makes eye contact with me. She waves. I recognize her from Art History, so I wave back. She smiles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice on the overhead speaker shouts, “put your hands together for Paco and the Pacific Northwest!”
There’s barely a singular clap from the audience for poor Paco and his grungy band as they take the stage. Clearly, no one’s here to see them.
Apparently, the audience’s lack of interest in Paco is mutual, because, as Paco and his bandmates launch into a loud, screaming, crashing song about... I have no idea what... Paco literally turns his back on the audience for almost the entire song. It’s totally, thoroughly and completely bizarre. I guess it’s his thing. The crowd returns the favor and reacts as if he’s not onstage.
As much as I want to pay my fellow musician the attention and respect he deserves for merely being onstage and expressing his art, I’m utterly disinterested. Of course, I’m not the best tester-audience-member for any opening band, anyway; the only band I care about seeing tonight is Red Card Riot. And, actually, even that’s not completely true. I just want to see Dean.
“There you are,” Delaney shouts, almost bumping into me. She’s got Juliette in tow. She looks up at the stage. “Paco’s kinda hot, huh?”
I glance up at the stage and scrutinize the back of Paco’s knit-cap-covered head. I shrug. I really don’t have sufficient information to render an opinion on the subject of Paco’s hotness, but, judging by the back of his head, and the fact that he’s literally screaming, “Fool’s gold, it was fool’s gold,” into his microphone at the moment, I’d probably go with, “Not so much.”
After about twenty minutes of bone-crushing, face-melting sonic waves from Paco, he mutters, “Thanks,” into his microphone and quickly retreats from the stage. Upon Paco’s departure, a solid two people clap for him. But, hey, I really shouldn’t be snarky about it. That’s a hefty one-hundred-percent spike in Paco’s approval rating since his initial introduction.
A crew of men dressed in black emerges onstage to ready the gear for the next band.
“Are you okay?” Tiffany shouts into my ear.
I nod. But I’m a nervous wreck. The anticipation of seeing Dean, finally, and telling him everything I feel, is killing me. With each passing moment, I’m becoming more and more tightly wound.
“You look great,” Tiffany assures me, touching my shoulder. “He’s going to fall onto his knees when he sees you and thank God for sending him an angel.”
Clearly, this is a gross exaggeration in every way, not the least of which is that no one, least of all Dean, would ever confuse me with an angel. I know Tiffany means well, but her pep talk is having the exact opposite effect she desires. I’m beginning to feel like the walls are closing in.
Tiffany leans into my ear again. “Just breathe.” She squeezes my hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Sons of Diego to the stage,” the announcer says, and a smattering of applause and cheers wells up from the crowd. Obviously these guys have more fans in San Diego than poor Paco and the Pacific Northwest. Three young skater-type guys in board shorts and Vans take the stage and begin playing a surf-punk-reggae-inspired set that’s actually super cool and really catchy. They’re singing about girls, of course, but also about peace, and then about surfing. Toward the end of their set, they throw in some “rise up to become what you see, no matter who anyone tells you to be”—and it’s all done to a bouncing, melodic beat. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. I look over at Tiffany, and she’s dancing enthusiastically, along with the entire crowd.
“Okay, these guys are definitely hot,” Delaney shouts into my ear, her body bouncing to the beat of the music.
Again, I shrug. They’re cute, of course. Even I can see that. But I’m beginning to realize nobody but Dean’s going to set my pulse racing ever again. Hopefully, he’s thinking the same thing about me. Or else, I’m going to be lonely for a very, very long time.
At the end of this band’s set, the men in black come out again to transition the stage for the next band. Even though I actually liked Sons of Diego a lot, I’m thrilled to get them the hell off the stage. All I want to do is see Dean.
Alas, when the announcer’s voice returns, it’s only to grace us with Smitten Kitten, a band populated by four young women, all of whom look like they could lure you into their litter box and bite your head clean off. I’m instantly prepared to hate these girls, simply because they’re the only four people on earth standing in the way of me seeing Dean again as soon as possible. But, dang, try as I might, it’s impossible to even dislike them. In fact, the moment they start playing, I am head-over-heels in love with them. Each girl plays her instrument with a careless determination, a thumping abandon, like they didn’t get the memo they’re girls and should act accordingly. They’re totally uninhibited up there—a different breed of girl than I’ve ever seen—a powerful, take-no-crap, I-was-born-to-do-this kind of girl. The guitarist is in a trance, her long locks covering her beautiful (and increasingly sweaty) face as she jerks back and forth and rocks it like no one’s watching. Meanwhile, the singer jumps around like she’s leading a Zumba class, and her raspy voice cuts through the music like a warm knife through butter.
Holy moly, I’m in lurve.
The more I watch them, the more I figure out what I like the most. They’re just passionate musicians up there, not resorting to humiliating gimmicks to make their mark. Despite their band name, these girls wouldn’t be caught dead in kitten ears or skin-tight cat suits or push-up bras, and yet, they’re sexy as hell. They’re raw and talented, showing the world what real girls can do when they trust in themselves, rather than worrying about who everyone else tells them they’re supposed to be.
I want to be a Smitten Kitten when I grow up, I decide, even though I’d guess these girls are only maybe three or four years older than me. I make a mental note to download their songs when I get home, if for nothing else to thank them for providing me with a glimpse of what a butt-kicking girl looks like nowadays. But also, and maybe even more importantly, for momentarily distracting me from my virtually obsessive yearning to see Dean.
By the time Smitten Kitten leaves the stage after forty-five minutes (to a tidal wave of cheers and applause), my feet are killing me; my head is throbbing; and my chest feels constricted. I’m pretty sure I’ve been standing here waiting for Red Card Riot for half my life.
The men in black emerge yet again to prepare the stage for the next band, and the crowd starts chanting for Red Card Riot. The place is going bananas. If Red Card Riot isn’t the next band, then I pity whoever is.
I look at my watch. It’s getting late. Red Card Riot’s got to be next. How long can this show possibly go on? The noise in the club is becoming overwhelming. Kids are chanting and stomping and clapping and screaming, and the place feels like it’s gonna explode. As I scan the crowd, I recognize even more kids from my school, and all of them are shouting “Red Card Riot!” right along with everyone else, whether or not they’d even heard of the band before tonight. Finally, just when I think the place couldn’t possibly get any louder without blowing the roof off, the announcer comes back on the sound system and says, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage... Red Card Riot!”
Chapter 28
At the announcer’s introduction of Red Card Riot, a deafening roar wells up inside the club. I fix my eyes onto the empty stage and hold my breath. Time has slowed and warped. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Suddenly, like a crack of lightning splitting a stormy sky, there he is, striding purposefully onto the stage, glorious and beautiful, wearing jeans and combat boots and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Dean.
Everyone around me is screaming, shrieking, cheering, and stomping in a frenzy of excited anticipation, and yet, amid all the fury around me, I am stock-still and silent, trying to process
what I’m seeing. Dean swaggers to front and center without a moment’s hesitation and, as the other members of his band take their respective positions around him, he gruffly throws the strap of his electric guitar over his neck and shoulder.
Since I’ve last laid eyes on Dean, he’s taken on almost mythical proportions in my mind, thanks to my tortured obsessing and fantasizing about him. But now, seeing him onstage with an electric guitar strapped to his chest and an entire club full of fans chanting and cheering for him, the stage lights bouncing off his cheekbones, he’s even grander and more stunning than I could have imagined him to be. I can’t believe it’s true, but in the time we’ve been apart, I’d actually forgotten how breathtaking he really is. I glance around quickly, and it’s quite clear that everyone in the crowd agrees with my impression of him. They’re going nuts for him, and he hasn’t even played his first note.
“Hey, everybody,” Dean shouts to the crowd. “Thanks for coming out.”
The audience replies with even louder screams and cheers.
Dean peels off an opening guitar riff that makes the audience jump up and down, and the band proceeds to unleash its first song. The music is frantic, verging on punk, with crashing drums and heavy bass and crunchy guitar chords.
Dean leans into the microphone, and his distinctive voice fills the room. He sings lyrics about standing up for what’s right and protesting oppression wherever you might find it.
Oh, that voice. It melts me. It paralyzes me. It slays me. It fills me with a deep-seated ache, a pulsing urge to claim him and make him mine.
Tonight, Dean’s voice is raw and ragged, yet it cuts a surprisingly melodic swath through the hard-hitting instrumentals. And he’s not just singing words to a song, either. No, that boy’s preaching the truth up there. This is not the smiling, crooning Dean I saw at Wang Palace; this is an animalistic version of Dean that makes me breathless in an entirely new way. His body twists and gyrates as he sings, like he can’t contain the raw emotion bursting forth from inside him. By the end of the first song, Dean’s been transported to another world—a sweaty, urgent, primal world, a place where he’s able to reveal himself in his truest form.